


Mac Gives Dennis up for Lent

by chrundletheokay



Category: It's Always Sunny in Philadelphia
Genre: Angst, Dissociation, Eating Disorders, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, and Catholicism obviously, brief ED mention, canon-typical toxic / abusive relationship dynamics, if this looks familiar it's because i posted it on tumblee like a month ago
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-20
Updated: 2020-06-20
Packaged: 2021-03-03 22:53:47
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,704
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24823396
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chrundletheokay/pseuds/chrundletheokay
Summary: “You can’t do that,” Dennis’s mouth says, without his brain’s conscious agreement. “You can’t—You can’t do that, because we’re not—You can’t break up with me if we’re not even tog—” He chokes on the rest of the word.
Relationships: Mac McDonald/Dennis Reynolds
Comments: 5
Kudos: 85





	Mac Gives Dennis up for Lent

**Author's Note:**

> This was inspired by a thing on sunny tumblr a month ago, about Mac "giving Dennis up for Lent." As a joke, I made a fake fic summary... and then my hand slipped, and I accidentally started writing an entirely different (angstier) fic, based on the same premise.
> 
> I considered posting this on here, but tbh I kind of forgot about writing it until yesterday.
> 
> Anyway, I feel like this could easily be the beginning of a longer fic, but I have no plans to continue it. Hopefully it stands decently well on its own, as sort of a snapshot into Mac and Dennis's uh... tumultuous relationship.
> 
> \--
> 
> content warnings for:  
> \- in-depth descriptions of dissociation  
> \- canon-typical Dennis being abusive  
> \- brief ED / disordered eating mention  
> \- canon-typical internalized homophobia

Whoever said Sundays are the Lord’s Day was wrong. Sunday mornings are Dennis’s mornings.

Usually, anyway.

Resulting from a combination of frequent hangovers and sheer laziness, Mac isn’t always regular about going to church. He claims it’s about “changing up his routine, to throw people off” — for “safety” reasons, of course. Like he imagines he has a stalker that he needs to keep off his tail. Who in their right mind would stalk _Mac?_ The guy is boring as shit, and Dennis would know better than anyone — he spends nearly every hour of every day with Mac, after all.

Except Sunday mornings. Most Sunday mornings, that is.

Dennis doesn’t necessarily mind the irregularity of Mac’s church attendance; unlike Mac, he never put any stock in that “keep holy the Lord’s day” bullshit. In fact, as far as Dennis is concerned, it would be better for everyone if Mac stopped going to church entirely. But having the apartment to himself one morning a week _does_ have its benefits.

Dennis can sleep in, for instance. He can spend an entire hour standing under the hot shower water, if he so chooses, taking in the steam in every pore of his body. And there’s no Mac pounding at the door, whining about how badly he needs to piss.

Dennis can do a full face of makeup and take selfies without fear of judgement or interference. He can drink black coffee on the sofa and watch the Food Network without having to ward off Mac and his endless goddamn opinions _(“You know you’re never gonna eat any of that, right?”)_.

So yes: Sundays mornings are for Dennis.

On this particular Sunday, Dennis has chosen to savor a rich, dark roast coffee from his favorite mug. He sits along the windowsill, taking in the gentle spring sun on his flawlessly made-up skin. From the speaker comes the delicate sounds of his favorite classical music playlist, soothing his every frazzled nerve. Legs crossed at the ankles, a crisp magazine on his lap, shirt freshly ironed, hair perfectly coiffed — honestly someone should take his fucking picture, because no one has ever looked this good, and that’s just a fact.

“Dennis,” Mac calls out as he bursts through the front door. Dennis startles, jostling his mug of coffee slightly.

A goddamn animal, is what Mac is. No poise, no refinement, no tact. Just bursts full speed into people’s homes, shouting over their perfect recording of… Who the fuck is this, even? Mozart? Beethoven? Whatever, it’s all basically interchangeable, anyway.

Mac darts across the living room, coming screeching to a halt in front of Dennis. He pauses to take Dennis in, head to toe. “Oh goddamn,” Mac whines.

He looks far too animated, far too frantic for a man who just slept through a long, boring homily. Dennis deduces, therefore, that the homily concerned the evils of either abortion or homosexuality — seemingly the only two moral issues with which Mac concerns himself. Well, not just Mac — Catholics in general, as far as Dennis can tell. Not that he makes a habit of associating with religious types. _God,_ no.

“Dennis,” Mac pants as he doubles over and braces his hands against his knees. “Dennis, I’ve got—” He takes in a shuddering breath of air. “—news, I’ve got… big news. Shit, dude.”

“Jesus Christ, man, sit down and breathe, will you? If I have to listen to you talk at me for the next hour, can you at least not be wheezing while you do it?”

Mac wags a shaky finger at him. “D-don’t… don’t do that. Don’t take His name in vain, Dennis; you’re going to Hell.”

Dennis rolls his eyes. “Whatever. Sit.” He gestures to the couch, and lets Mac catch his breath while he fetches a cup of ice water from the kitchen.

Mac drains half the cup in one go. “We have to break up,” he blurts out immediately after, as water dribbles down his chin. He scrubs the back of his hand across his mouth.

Dennis finds himself at a loss for words. The only thing in his brain is the fizzling and sparking of white noise and electricity, which can’t really be translated into English, except perhaps in the form of an onomatopoeia: _Kshhhhht. Fzzzzzz. Pop. Bzzzzz._

Mac, however, doesn’t seem concerned with a response. Prior to this moment, Mac’s tendency to monologue has only ever been an annoyance; but today, it seems a rare blessing.

“…with Lent coming up, and all,” Mac is saying. “And the priest was all, like, _sin_ is anything that gets in between you and God. Anything that interferes with your relationship with God. At least, I _think_ that’s what he was saying? He was saying a lot of words, Dennis. Priests say so many words, dude. Like _homilies?_ They’re like, so—” Mac stops short and waves his hands as if to dismiss that line of thought. “But that’s not important. What I’m saying is—”

“You can’t do that,” Dennis’s mouth says, without his brain’s conscious agreement. “You can’t—You can’t do that, because we’re not—You can’t break up with me if we’re not even tog—” He chokes on the rest of the word.

His mind is doing that thing where—He can’t even feel his body. It’s like he’s floating. But it’s not like it is in dreams, where he’s flying and it feels like freedom and release and pure, unadulterated joy. It’s floating like _nothing._ Like numb. Like Dennis Reynolds doesn’t even exist anymore. He’s just a collection of atoms arranged vaguely into the shape of a body, with a blob of brain matter somewhere near the top of it all.

Mac’s slight frown transforms into a full-on scowl. He scoffs. “Obviously not. It’s not, like—I’m not talking about anything _gay,_ obviously. I just mean, like. We can’t spend this much time together, dude. Because it’s not what _God wants._ God wants _me,_ okay? God doesn’t want _me_ to want _you._ Like, as a friend, of course. Only as a friend. Nothing, like—But that’s besides the point. God only wants _me_ to want _God._ Do you see what I’m getting at, bro?”

Dennis shakes his head. He can’t see. He can’t see anything at all. He can, but he can’t. Everything is blurriness and pale white morning light. Mac’s dirty boots on the living room floor. The indistinct outlines of furniture. Nothing.

“Hey,” Mac says, an obvious attempt at consolation. He pats Dennis on the knee, the same way he’s done a hundred times before. Except this time, his hand freezes there for an agonizing second, before drawing back jerkily. He scoots back on the sofa by a few inches. It might feel like a slap in the face, except that he could literally slap Dennis on the face, and Dennis might not feel a thing at all.

“It’s—It’s cool, though, dude,” Mac continues in a smaller, far less confident voice. “We’ll still see each other at work. And, like, at home, obviously. But I just can’t—Like. I have to focus on God. Lent. You know? Not like…”

Mac sighs.

“It’s fine for you to sit here, in your fancy clothes, with your big hair, and your—” Mac waves a hand vaguely, but Dennis can’t focus his eyes enough to tell what he’s waving at. He can’t bring himself to care, either. The words hardly mean anything; they’re just words. Dennis is just Dennis. None of this means anything, anyway.

“—pretty face all done up, and like—What is this? Is this Mozart?” Mac doesn’t wait for an answer. “Doesn’t matter.”

“You’re _Dennis,”_ Mac explains. Does he think Dennis needs the reminder? Mac doesn’t even know. He doesn’t know shit. He’s so oblivious. Dennis can’t even move, and Mac is sitting there talking, like this is all normal. “You’re, like, the Golden God, and shit. And so maybe when you do it, it’s all, like… high-class, and fancy, rich boy stuff, or whatever, but—I mean, come on. I can’t—It’s different for me.”

“Get the fuck out.”

“What?”

It takes a moment; it takes Mac responding in confusion for Dennis to realize that low growl came from his own body. It snaps him back to reality somehow.

This is it. This is what Dennis lives for. He’s never more alive, never more in his body than when he feels himself pushing up against another person. Physically, metaphorically — it doesn’t matter. Dennis is fucking real, and alive, and _fuck Mac._

_“Get the fuck out,”_ he shouts. Wide-eyed, Mac leans back, like he’s anticipating a punch or a slap or a scratch. “You wanna spend time apart? Good! I don’t _fucking_ care! Get out of my apartment, Mac. Go back to fucking— _church_ for all I care.”

Mac doesn’t move.

_“Fuck you,”_ Dennis shouts, for good measure.

Mac cautiously stands up and backs off, clearly waiting for the blow to land, and backing away before it can. He always shrinks away from a fight, the fucking coward. He doesn’t even say a word, and that pisses Dennis off more than anything on God’s green fucking Earth.

As he stands, back to the door, Mac’s eyes are deer-in-the-headlights wide, still; and Dennis can’t find it in himself to be sorry. He can’t imagine _ever_ being sorry, for anything. People push him; they can’t blame him for pushing back. When Dennis throws his mug, it shatters against the door just over Mac’s left shoulder, dripping tepid coffee all down the old wood and Mac’s idiotic slogan tee-shirt.

Mac’s hand reaches behind his stupid, shaking body for the doorknob. He fumbles for a bit before managing the knob, and opens the door without taking his eyes off Dennis. Still without a word, he backs out quietly; and, with a shaking exhalation, closes the door tight in his own face.

Dennis is alone, then.

Mozart plays quietly over the speakers. Or Beethoven, or Brahms, or Bach, or who-the- _fuck-_ ever.

Dennis’s breathing is harsh and heavy over it all, an ugly accompaniment to the soft, gentle music.

A loud sob shatters the fragile stillness.

Who was that?

_Oh,_ he realizes — it was Dennis.

Just Dennis. Only Dennis, alone in this _fucking_ apartment.

**Author's Note:**

> uh, I have no idea how to insert links on here, but these are the posts in question that inspired this truly ""fun"" and ""lighthearted"" piece of writing:  
> \- chrundletheokay.tumblr.com/post/618509576017444864/idea-to-curb-the-flow-of-asks-give-up-dennis-for  
> \- chrundletheokay.tumblr.com/post/618510616332763136/giving-dennis-up-for-lent-is-totally-something-mac  
> \- chrundletheokay.tumblr.com/post/618511701267070976/mac-gives-dennis-up-for-lent-macdennis-50k


End file.
